


Sparks

by captainodonewithyou



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainodonewithyou/pseuds/captainodonewithyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, Static Quake. Skye's roommate Jemma has recently moved out, so when her power goes out in a storm she is on her own. Luckily for her, her attractive new neighbor has a knack for wiring. (oneshot)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I failed our electricity unit in 6th grade please don't judge my power knowledge.

“Dammit.”

The word hisses past her lips as another boom of thunder resonates and makes her now painfully dark apartment shiver.

She isn’t scared of the dark—she isn’t scared of much of anything, _really_ —but she hasn’t been living alone long and “blackout” is shockingly something her over-prepared ex-roommate had not covered before leaving Skye on her own to move in with her boyfriend.

She remains seated in front of the now dark television for a moment, staring blindly out into nowhere as the darkness settles and allows her eyes to make out the subtle shadows of the rest of the room.

Mainly, she is concerned that now she won’t know till tomorrow if her least favorite player on Big Brother will be voted out or not, and that someone will almost definitely spoil it for before she gets to watching it.  Also, no popcorn.  Out of the two, the popcorn proves to be the greater motivator—backed strongly by a grumbling, unfed stomach that makes Skye curse again and rise from the cozy spot on her couch where she’d _intended_ to spend the majority of her night.

Lightning flashes through the room and Skye shoots an icy glare out her window as it goes dark again.

“You’re an ass,” she tells the storm icily.  Thunder grumbles in response.

She has never called an electrician before and as she moves towards the window, she starts to think she might not even call one tonight.  Trees are whipping in a wild wind and rain is sheeting down so heavily she can barely make out the window of the building across the way from hers.  It seems pointless to call when probably half the city is doing the exact same thing—and someone else in the complex surely has contacted the landlord, anyway.

Instead, she crosses the apartment to the kitchen, standing on her tiptoes to reach the cabinets that Jemma usually was in charge of keeping (heavily) stocked.  Upon opening them, Skye is reminded of the shopping list she’d brushed off before coming home after work, which at the time seemed like a fair reward for a hard day.  Now, however, another flash of lightning reveals the box of Cheerios she’d shoved back empty two mornings ago and a dusty can of cat food forgotten by Jemma—and she remembers why she actually went to the trouble of making a list in the first place.

“I’m going to actually die.” She whines out loud, definitely not dramatically.  The storm grumbles again and she fights the urge to yell back at it, glancing at her door and wondering if it’s worth it to try to mooch some food off of literally anyone else in the complex—she is fairly certain she can take her pick and any one of them will be more prepared than her.

She is still contemplating the pros and cons of going begging when she notices the glimmer of warm light reaching under the door crack.

It piques her interest and she moves towards it, wondering if someone outside has a flashlight.  Or a floodlight.  Or really anything that will allow her to actually see more than two feet ahead of her.  She somehow crosses the apartment without issue, and when she fumbles and finds the handle to pull it open, light blinds her.

It takes another long moment for her eyes to adjust but when they do, her spirits sink even lower—the hall lights are shining bright, unaffected by whatever has taken her own power captive.

“Looking for something?”

Too blinded by lights, Skye has failed to notice the movement at the stairs across the hall.  Her head jerks in the direction of the voice, searching for the body attached—he is gangly and blonde and when their eyes meet, the smallest of smirks tugs at the corner of his lips.

She isn’t sure why it is so _annoying_.

“4A,” she greets dryly, raising an eyebrow.  She knows it is him, not because she has ever actually seen him before (no, the asshole comes and leaves in darkness, loudly, consistently), but because she knows 4C is Coulson and 4D is Mike—they’ve all been neighbors for years—and a key is hanging loosely from the hand not on the stair railing.  4A was previously occupied, by an ass Skye assumes the new 4A is attempting to rival.

“4B,” he returns, smirk still painted across his lips, “we finally meet.”

Skye narrows her eyes at that, nose wrinkling.  He’s still standing at the top of the stairs, hand on the railing, watching her with more amusement than she appreciates.

“I wasn’t aware we were trying to,” she informs him bluntly, and somehow his grin grows wider.

“No, you’re right. I too was under the impression we were avoiding it.”

His eyes are drifting behind her, squinting into her dark apartment, and she shifts slightly to block his view—but not before his brow furrows in concern.

“Were you heading out?” He asks, smirk suddenly wiped from his face.  “It’s storming like hell out there, it probably isn’t safe to be on the road.”

It is not what she is expecting him to say at all, and she is so surprised she can’t even manage to consider _not_ telling him the truth.

“My power is out,” she mumbles bitterly, looking pointedly at the lights shining over them, “apparently _just_ my power.”

He follows her gaze, eyes lingering on the lights.  Her stomach, apparently resenting the change of focus, lets out a long, loud grumble—and his eyes fall back to her, concern intensified.

“I can try to check out your fuse box in the basement,” he tells her, eyes again flicking to the darkness behind her, “if it’s just blown I can replace it, easy,” he motions to the bag she’s noticed hanging at his side that jangles loudly when he moves. “The _problem_ is that the door is usually locked.”

Skye forgets the extreme seriousness of the grumbling of her stomach for a moment at his words, trying and failing to bite back a smirk.

“Usually?” She asks, amused, “You’ve tried to break into the _basement_ before?”

She watches as his expression shifts from concern to a remarkably un-menacing glare, and she finds herself suddenly doubting that her ‘asshole’ label fits the product at _all_.

“I’m sorry,” she amends, still grinning uncontrollably, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  Please do actually save my life,” she fixes her expression into something she hopes resembles a stereotypical damsel in distress (he’s caught her vulnerable and foodless, after all); “I need you, 4A.”

“You are truly shameless,” he informs her, reaching to scratch behind his ear.  But the smirk is again playing at his lips, and she thinks she may stand a chance.  “It does, however, still stand that I cannot get into the basement.”

“You can get in anywhere if you really want to,” she tells him, waggling her eyebrows, “But it helps that you have me as a neighbor.” Something it is safe to call vague worry flashes across his expression, “I’ll meet you downstairs after I’ve gotten _my_ tools.”

Xxx

“I am not a professional thief, oh my _god_ ,” she informs him for probably the sixth time in the last five minutes.  Apparently picking a lock, no matter how sloppily, is a skill that is in his mind specific to master thieves and super-villains.

Surprisingly to him, Skye is neither.

“I swear I wouldn’t call the cops if you were,” he tells her, looking away from the wires his fingers are tangled precariously in to smirk at her.

She nudges his shoulder with the flashlight he’s given her to shine on the box he is working in.

“Look at the stuff that has the potential to kill you, sparky, not me,” she orders in her most demanding voice.

He laughs, but obeys.

“If you’re a criminal you could probably kill me, too.”

“Oh my God if you aren’t careful you will _die_ and then _yes_ , I will be a criminal.”

He smiles but doesn’t look up from his work this time, reaching for a complicated tool Skye has no name for.

“I do this every day, 4B.  I swear I won’t electrocute myself.”

She tries to focus on keeping the flashlight steady, really, but close up she’s starting to realize her neighbor is kind of impossible to keep her eyes off of—especially in the low light.  He is focused on the project now and his deep blue eyes are trained on the wires, his brow furrowed tight with lines.  His lips are just slightly parted and his hair is stuck up in all directions as if he does, in fact, make a habit of getting shocked.

When his eyes flick back to hers, she notices belatedly—he has to clear his throat, and she gives a slight start.

“As much as I am enjoying admiring your newly illuminated feet, I do actually have to see the wires to fix this.”

She glances at her feet, and jerks the flashlight’s beam back onto the box when she finds it pointed at them.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

His gaze lingers, though, and she hopes the basement is dark enough to hide the blush she feels burning into her cheeks.

“I’m no electrician, but I’m pretty sure you have to _look_ at them to fix it, too,” she suggests, her voice coming out an unfortunate pitch too high.  This time he gives the start, looking swiftly back in the direction of the box and taking a long, dazed moment to collect himself before continuing.

From now on she is very careful to pay attention to where she aims the flashlight.

“So, I’ll bet your girlfriend loves the whole superhero-electrician vibe,” she says after a while, mainly to fill the silence and _definitely_ without any ulterior motive.

He pauses a moment, glancing back at her then.

“Yeah, it’d definitely be a big winner if I had one,” he informs her.

No ulterior motive at _all_.

“Your boyfriend as impressed as I am that you can break into places?”

She smirks as he sneaks a brief glance up at her.

“Actually, you’re gonna love this; my boyfriend—well, okay, he lived in your apartment—and he _actually_ was a criminal.”

She delivers the news with a good deal of drama and waits expectantly for what is sure to be a winning response.  He has stopped working again and she smiles wider.

“Was?”

Skye stares at him in disbelief.

“Was…” She echoes slowly, “4A, dude, I _literally_ just told you I dated a criminal and ‘was’ is what you hear?!”

He remains unimpressed, and Skye glares at the back of his head as he ignores her—but doesn’t miss the tips of his ears burning red in the glow of the flashlight.

He is untangling his hands from the wires now, reaching for the unnamable tool and putting it back in the bag he’d brought as he rises to his feet, facing her.

Her stomach gives yet another loud rumble, and they both stare down at it, then back at each other.

“You should probably take care of that,” he tells her matter of factly, grinning.  “Your power should be back.  I switched your wires with 2C.”

“Crabby Craig? God, you are a real hero.”

Lincoln looks subtly pleased with himself and Skye can’t help but smile wistfully at the thought of the perpetually angry and vaguely creepy jerk in 2C suddenly being thrown into the darkness that was previously her cross to bear.

She leads the way up the stairs, flipping off the flashlight and relocking the door behind them as they pass through.  The stairway up to 4 is wide enough for him to fall in stride beside her, tool bag clanging at his side.

“So, I have a really awesome idea,” she tells him as they pass two, after they’ve shared grins at the loud cursing from C.

He glances sideways at her, eyebrow raised.

“I feel like I’m probably going to regret this, but—what is your idea?”

She prods his shoulder playfully at the dig and he shakes his head, reaching to run a hand through that messy hair of his.

It is definitely too bright for a blush to be ignored now, and she fights hard against it.

“In order to celebrate my newly functioning oven you should go to your apartment, and get food, and bring it to my apartment to cook.  And share with me.”

“I get the vibe your cabinets are empty.”

“You know me so _well_ , 4A.  We’re clearly already besties and friends don’t let friends starve.”

“I changed my mind.  You aren’t a criminal.  You are a politician. Deceivingly similar careers.”

She laughs and he brightens.

“Tell you what, 4B—you tell me your name and I will feed you whenever the hell you want.”

They’ve reached their floor now, and he turns to face her, eyes shining happily in the light Skye is determined not to take for granted again.

“Also you will fix my electricity every time it goes out?” She adds with her most winning smile.

He rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling.

“Also I will fix your electricity every time it goes out,” he agrees.

She holds out a hand, keeping her gaze locked on his.

“Skye,” she introduces.

He takes her hand in his, and she could _swear_ she feels sparks.

“Lincoln.”


	2. Wedding Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on continuing this but here we are haha. Enjoy!

Jemma turns up at her door precariously balancing a pair of bulging paper grocery bags so early Skye nearly wonders if the store marked on the bags was actually _open_ when her friend turned up to shop.

“Early morning shopping craving?” Skye teases, even though she’s spotted her favorite cookies peeking out the top of Left Bag (beside what looks suspiciously like a tree of broccoli she can already see rotting in the back corner of her fridge).

Jemma rolls her eyes, shoving past Skye into the open apartment behind her. She follows slowly, ignoring how the other girl’s shoulders slump at the award worthy mess she has managed to turn what used to be their apartment into. She expertly dodges the piles of clothes and shoes and a particularly unfortunate pile of what was her toaster before it attacked her towards the kitchen.

“Cravings are bad, aren’t they?” She smirks, still watching the cookies bobbing in their home in Left Bag, mentally preparing a daring rescue, should it be necessary. “Jemma, are you marrying Fitz because you’re _knocked up_?”

Her ex-roommate continues ignoring her, dropping the bags onto the cluttered kitchen countertop with a thud that seems remarkable given their relatively small size.

“Pregnancy cravings involve food, Skye, not shopping,” Jemma finally responds in that _tone_ —somewhere between annoyance and Hermione Granger that practically defines her. “Although if pregnancy did make you grocery shop, getting _you_ pregnant might _actually_ save your life.”

It’s Skye’s turn to ignore, hopping the piles to come to Left Bag and the cookies inside. Jemma rolls her eyes as she rescues it from the broccoli, wrapping the package up in a safe, cozy little hug against her chest.

“Don’t have a child,” Skye tells her, popping up on her tiptoes to peer into the bag past the broccoli for anything else worth saving. “I am your child.”

There is box mac-n-cheese, she thinks, at the very bottom (she can tell by the corner of a cheddar-colored bunny rabbit) and the Family Variety size pack of Honey O cereal—amidst a bag of extremely insulting leaves that might be spinach and a white version of the broccoli that makes Skye wrinkle her nose.

“Why are there so many _vegetables_? You’re contaminating the good stuff.”

Jemma glares directly at her this time, reaching to tug the cookies from Skye’s grasp, placing them on the opposite side of the bags.

“There are so many vegetables because you cannot survive off of sandwich cookies and Honey O cereal without milk,” she informs her, slapping her hand away when she reaches into Left Bag again, for her cereal this time.

“Mac-n-cheese, too,” she clarifies helpfully.

Jemma stares at her, hard.

“Thank heavens,” she deadpans, “and here I was concerned you had an unhealthy diet.”

And then there is a second knock on the door. Skye glances startled towards it, then back to Jemma—who looks equally confused.

“Is Fitz joining your vegetable intervention?” She asks, hoping it comes out sounding more like ’ _traitor_ ’.

Jemma shakes her head, brow furrowed.

“Fitz is at work. Whoever it is must have the wrong apartment.”

Skye temporarily considers being annoyed, but it is a fair assumption, as no one has rung up and even if anyone _had_ , it definitely wouldn’t have been on purpose—since Jemma qualifies as Skye’s only friend.

“Can I go yell at them?” Skye asks, smirk tugging at her lips, “Oh god I really want to make someone think they ruined my morning.”

Her friend rolls her eyes, moving for the cookies and shoving the incentive back into her arms before turning towards the door.

“Eat your cookies and don’t speak, Skye.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice, retreating to the relative safety of the other side of the counter before peeling open the wrapper, ignoring Jemma’s soft cursing in her general direction when she stubs her toe on the ex-toaster on her way to the door.

When she opens the door it blocks her view of who is there—but their voices drift across the room.

“I think you have the wrong number, I am this one’s only friend.”

Skye glowers.

“I resent that!”

A thrown glare around the edge of the door.

“You wanted to come yell at the poor man, you’ve got no bloody defense. Eat your cookies.”

“That’s fair,” Skye mumbles to the snacks, who seem to understand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—” the man continues.

“No, really, it’s just fine. Who’re you looking for? Phil is down the hall a couple more; Mike—”

“I'm—er, Skye. I um—yeah. I’m here to see… I brought…”

The voice is painfully familiar but without a view of the face it belongs to, Skye can’t place it—and she is too determined to eat as many of her cookies as she can before Jemma takes them back to worry about it.

“You came here on purpose?” Jemma responds dubiously, and Skye can practically see the shock in her expression.

“I live next door—”

_Oh._

Skye struggles to chew the mass of chocolate in her mouth into something she can swallow, shoving the package onto the counter and hurrying to get to the door—tripping over her own piles in the process and cringing when she swallows entirely too soon, catching sight of the neighbor electrician as she stumbles over, straightening her pajama shirt (something unfortunate about being batman), running a hand through her tangled hair and squeezing into the doorway beside Jemma.

“Hi.”

Her voice comes out squeaky and girly, and she feels Jemma’s eyes turn on her in mild shock.

He looks somehow better in the light of day—hair clearly brushed but still a tousled mess, fresh red shirt fit snugly across his shoulders, eyes soft and bright—and when they turn on her, her heart absolutely doesn’t patter.

He is balancing a paper bag in his arms, too.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her this time, expression oddly nervous, “it’s early, I didn’t look at the time I just—the whole thing last night with you not having food… I was by the store and I just…”

She swallows again, mouth remarkably dry from the mass cookie massacre—glancing again at the bag in his arms and realizing all at once why he is at her door.

She feels her eyes widen.

“You brought me food?”

Jemma is looking between them suspiciously now and Skye nudges her out of the way, opening the door fully as he shifts nervously beyond it.

She motions him in.

“Come on, sparky. That looks heavy and beautifully devoid vegetables. Do you like broccoli and weird white broccoli? I will trade.”

Xxx

Jemma bans the trading of food and Lincoln promises her he doesn’t need the compensation—and as they finish putting the groceries away, Skye shoves the crap off her counter and into a fresh new pile on the ground that Jemma eyes with disdain. There are only two chairs (she broke the third trying to see if whoever owned the apartment before her hid treasure in the air vents—it’s shoved in one of the closets now), but she prepares a paper plate at each spot anyway, pulling the fresh pack of Honey O’s from the cabinet and shaking a sufficient pile of the little cereals on to each.

“Skye, you can’t just feed a stranger a pile of dry cheerios for breakfast,” Jemma tells her as she shuts the fridge, and Lincoln looks over his shoulder at the sound of his new name via her ex-roommate, who is less than a fan of the prepackaged contents of _his_ grocery bag that earn a much more enthusiastic response from Skye.

She considers her friend’s words and reaches for her cookies, peeling open the pack and dropping one unceremoniously on top of each pile of cereal, then smiling at her.

“Better?”

Lincoln tries to swallow a laugh and fails miserably.

“I don’t particularly enjoy being your friend,” Jemma informs her, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring halfheartedly.

“I particularly enjoy being your friend,” Skye responds. “Also, Sparky _loves_ my food. Or, his food, that I prepare for him.”

Jemma turns her glare on Lincoln and he raises his arms in an exaggerated surrender.

“There was no electricity for half the night, I was tired and half starved.”

Skye has already bluntly explained to Jemma that Lincoln was the new Asshole-Apartment, to which he had rolled his eyes (and dragged them quickly off of her when she caught him looking). She told her how he had basically saved her life, and added with particular grandeur that he’d even made Creeper Craig’s life worse in the process—and her friend had only sighed.

(“I’m glad to see you’re making friends.”

“I _told you_ I’m your child.”

“Right, then _eat your bloody vegetables_.”

“Nevermind.”)

“I don’t mind dry cereal, _really_ ,” he assures Jemma, who only glares harder.

“You’re _encouraging her_ ,” she informs him, but motions for him to take a seat anyway, before glancing back at Skye. “You do remember the dress fitting is this afternoon, yeah?”

It is news to her, but she nods knowingly. Jemma looks dubious but continues, eyes drifting to Lincoln who is cautiously looking at the cereal on his plate, as if contemplating how he should be eating it.

“My mum is going to be there, and yours…”

Skye, who was exaggeratedly picking through her cereal in an attempt to demonstrate to her guest that hand-eating is perfectly acceptable in her home, snaps her attention to Jemma.

“You _suck up_!”

The sulkiness of Jemma since her arrival suddenly makes all the sense in the world to Skye, and if she hadn’t brought her cookies, she thinks she might’ve kicked her out.

Jemma doesn’t respond immediately to her words and Skye prods her plate of Honey O’s angrily, inadvertently sending them scattering.

“You can’t just invite my _mom_ to your wedding without asking me, Jemma!” She snaps, ignoring the scattered cereal still rolling around the table. “You _know_ how it is with us. I can’t go see her now, she doesn’t even know Grant and I are broken up! Do you even understand how much shit she is going to give me!?”

Jemma is still looking away from her, watching the spilled breakfast settle on the table before turning slowly to Skye—Lincoln, similarly, is watching the cereal, and once Jemma moves he swallows, collecting Skye’s plate and reaching to contain the scattered food back onto it.

“I’m not sure now is the time—” She begins, eyes shifting pointedly towards an obviously uncomfortable Lincoln, still carefully, slowly, cleaning up the cereal.

“I am not going with you if it means I have to see my mother,” she tells her with a note of finality that she hopes resonates in her friend. “I love you and I know this is about you, not me—but this is one thing I _cannot_ do, Maid of Honor duty or not.”

Jemma lets out a long breath.

“I _know_ Skye,” she tells her, lowering her voice slightly as if her neighbor—still between them, now returned to eating his own cereal and staring painstakingly at the wall—can’t hear the quieter tone. “My mum mentioned to her something about Grant being your plus one and… it escalated into an invitation, apparently. She didn’t tell _me_ till it was too late. I wouldn’t do this to you if I had an out, you know I wouldn’t.”

She pauses, picking her cookie from the top of her pile of O’s and offering it across Lincoln to Skye, who shakes her head, still staring at her friend in awe.

“So you’re telling me my mom not _only_ doesn’t realize I am no longer dating him, but also thinks I am bringing him to the wedding?!”

“If you started dating someone new…”

“I’m not dating someone new!”

“Fitz might be able get one of his mates to pretend, just for the next few weeks, just to make things run smoothly…”

There is pleading in the other girl’s eyes and Skye understands why. One hitch in her mother’s visit will result in the entire event being shifted and mangled till it’s all about her—it wouldn’t be the first time.

Skye lets out a long, resigned breath, rolling her gaze away from her friend’s expression, so sad she thinks it could probably convince her to jump off a cliff.

“I swear to God, Jemma, if you say Hunter—”

She cringes and Skye groans, thinking of the frustratingly annoying lilted accent and lofty smirk she absolutely cannot _stand_.

“If you weren’t so sarcastic all the time you might not frighten everyone away from you and then you might have an option aside from him!” Jemma reasons, and Skye groans again, louder.

“You should have brought me more cookies.”

“You can have mine,” Lincoln murmurs under his breath, prodding it towards her and clearly trying to keep himself the hell out of the girls’ argument.

Unfortunately, the little movement is just enough to remind Jemma he is there. Her eyes fall considering him a moment before widening, just enough for Skye’s finely tuned radar to notice.

“Or—” she begins.

“Oooh, no,” Skye interrupts, quickly. “No. No no no.”

She glares at Jemma, hoping she reads through the stare.

No such luck.

“Why not? You’re friends, yeah? Better than Hunter—you might actually succeed in pretending you like each other.”

Lincoln has realized he is a part of the ‘you’ in question, looking up from his breakfast with a hint of confusion.

“I owe him a favor already, and we’re _acquaintances_ as of _last night_.”

Jemma stares at her dubiously.

_Don’t screw this up, dammit._

“You fed him, Skye. You get along fine.”

She considers clarifying that he kind of fed her, but then he is finally speaking up, looking between the girls with a furrowed brow.

“Do I get to be a part of this decision or is this one of those things where I sit silently and allow my fate to be decided for me?”

Skye flicks his arm but his words do bring Jemma back down a bit, and when he shoots her a half-hearted glare she responds with a twitch of a smile.

“God, do whatever you want, Skye,” her name snaps a bit on her tongue, and she feels guilt blooming in the pit of her stomach. Jemma doesn’t ask a lot of her and it isn’t often she comes so near losing her patience. “I’m not going to be bridezilla about this, or any of this wedding, but I wish you’d consider how awful the next month’ll be if you put your mum in a foul mood.”

She’s moving to gather her purse from where she hung it on her chair, pulling it over her shoulder and moving towards the door.

“And eat your bloody vegetables before you contract yourself some awful illness,” she orders as she reaches the door, glowering over her shoulder at Skye. “The fitting is across the street at noon.”

In utter Jemma fashion, she doesn’t even slam the door behind her.

“I’m so sorry you got dragged into her micromanaging,” Skye tells Lincoln after the quiet has settled a moment, shifting so she’s facing him more fully. “She isn’t usually like that. My mother has a bad effect on people.”

His eyes are already on her, something she is becoming more and more accustomed to—and she smiles at the hint of a blush that she might even imagine tinging his cheeks when she catches the stare.

“I don’t mind,” he says, and smiles a bit in response, studying her expression quietly a moment before continuing. “What a name; Hunter,” he laughs, a little more easily than before, “sounds like a remarkably assholey guy.”

Skye snorts.

“I love that you can tell by the name.”

“The way you said it helped.”

She slips the cookie he’d offered earlier off the table, twisting the top and offering him the cream half, which he takes without hesitation.

“I’d do it, you know,” he says after a moment, and she glances startled back into the honest blue of his eyes.

“Do what?”

A gentle smile tugs at his lips.

“I’d act like I was this Grant of yours, if you asked me to. I get weird parental situations. I… I’d be glad to help soften yours. If you wanted.”

She contemplates a moment with a bit of surprise, studying his expression with a furrowed brow.

“Really?” Is all she finally murmurs, meeting his eyes yet again—and this time, she is the unsure one.

“Is this you asking?”

“No,” she bites her lip. “But… this is.”

His warm smile widens.

“Yes.”


End file.
